


Call Me Irresponsible

by Lucky107



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Celebrity Crush, Gen, Older Man/Younger Woman, One-Sided Attraction, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 22:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9206411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky107/pseuds/Lucky107
Summary: The Retroussé Yacht Club is done up like a royal wedding.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Call Me Irresponsible - Brenda Lee - 1965

Despite the heat of the Louisiana summer, the interrogation room carries a distinct chill; the cool steel tabletop leaves gooseflesh on Joséphine’s bare arms.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Joséphine Charette,” she says with an air of impatience, the southern dialect very pronounced to Jonathan Maguire’s northern ears. She’s of the niche Southern polite society that makes up New Bordeaux’s one percent; though no older than twenty, she carries herself with the elegance and finesse of a grown woman.

Jonathan’s got five, maybe six years on her and yet he feels like a mere child sitting opposite her. All of his well-rehearsed questions are reduced to chicken scratch on paper. “Do you know why we brought you in today, Miss Charette?”

Did he mispronounce her name?

Licking his lips anxiously, his blue eyes flicker from her face to the open manila folder in his hand for reassurance, but Joséphine just inspects her nails for asymmetry in apparent disinterest. “To answer questions in regard to the late Mr. Remy Duvall.”

“And how well did you know Mr. Duvall?”

“I didn’t.”

 

_December, 1965_

The Retroussé Yacht Club is done up like a royal wedding, with extravagant chandeliers and predominantly white floral arrangements to make up for the locational lack of winter snow. Every aspect of the ensemble meticulously reflects the virtue of honour that’s ripe in every young woman on display at the cotillion ball.

Among the many women and their fawning families in attendance is Joséphine Charette, who stands wringing her hands in anxious anticipation as the final preparations are made.

There are days when life without her father has become commonplace, but as a young débutante she yearns for him.

Perceptive to her concern, one man makes his way across the dance hall after brief dialogue with the ever-beautiful Olivia Marcano and he graces Joséphine with a picture-perfect smile.

Remy Duvall.

He’s something of celebrity in New Bordeaux following the success of his new radio show and, much to her surprise, he extends his hand to Joséphine.

“You must be Miss Charette,” he says with singsong charm. “Why, I haven’t seen you since you were only knee-high. I was a good friend of your father, you know.”

Joséphine shakes Remy’s hand with all the learned grace and delicacy of a proper lady. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Turning to the girl’s mother, he adds, “My, Corinne—Mrs. Charette—you must be so proud; what a fine young lady you’ve raised. You really are an inspiration to us all, bringing her up alone the way you have. If you ever need anything—”

Remy lets his praises all come at once, like he can’t decide which line he favours more, but it falls on deaf ears. Corinne tunes him out the minute he opens his mouth, itching around the neckline of her turtleneck sweater and looking for an opportunity to escape. She makes no effort to mask her displeasure.

But sixteen-year-old Joséphine hangs off his every word.

“I apologize; I didn’t mean to intrude. I had been hoping to run into you sooner, but you know how busy the night of a cotillion can be. Do you have someone to introduce you tonight, Miss Charette?”

“I don't—”

“Then please, allow me,” he insists, taking Joséphine’s hand like a proper gentleman. “I simply won’t have Eugène Charette’s baby girl introduced to society by a stand-in; he would turn in his grave.”

“It would be an honour, Mr. Duvall.”

Remy’s smile lights up the room, but even when he looks into her big, brown eyes, those baby blues never let on a trace of what he’s thinking. “You just call me Remy, sweetheart.”


End file.
